


Drugs, Lies, and Jedi Mindtricks

by leaves_girl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consent Issues, Drug Use, Episode: s02e05 Simon Said, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaves_girl/pseuds/leaves_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not a bad guy, you know.</p><p>(During 'Simon Said', Andy sees Dean in his "lawyers representing his Great Aunt Leta" suit and mistakes him for a G-man.  Feeling a little lonely and in the grips of an existential crisis, he decides to take Dean over to Sarah's to smoke pot and hang out.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean was fucked. Not just in the “having a bad day” sense, either. No, Dean was genuinely, 100%, beamed-onto-the-starship-enterprise-while-wearing-a-red-shirt fucked. Really, it was more like that episode where the aliens made Kirk prance around like a pony and whinny whenever the midget that was riding him smacked his ass. Andrew Gallagher might not kill him, but then again he might do worse.

“I know the difference between right and wrong, you know?” Gallagher was explaining, gesturing with the tip of his enormous bong whenever he made a point. “I mean, I’m not a child, you know. You know?” 

Dean smiled his best placating smile. “Yeah, sure, Chuckles. Obi-Wan had mind-whammy skills, but he was still on the Light side of the force. I get that.“ Screw placating. “But what you don’t seem to comprehend is that you took my car, my car, man, and drove her over gravel and potholes and back to Marta The Swedish Love Slave’s apartment without even checking the undercarriage for scratches.” 

“Shh.”

“So you’ve gotta know the only reason my gun’s in my belt instead of pointed at your forehead is because…”

“Hey, just sit still and shut up a little, okay?” He smiled and sat.

Dean had been in a lot of near death situations before. He’d been given a week to live after getting electrocuted. He’d been pinned to the wall while the demon that’d killed his mom and was possessing his dad cut into his intestines. He’d even had an out-of-body experience complete with a reaper breathing down his neck. Andrew the pothead Gallagher shouldn’t be able to scare him. Still, in all those other situations, he’d had a chance. Even when he couldn’t actually do anything, he could still try. 

“Hey, why aren’t you high?” Gallagher asked, and Dean didn’t answer.

Trying in impossible situations was what being a Winchester was all about. Andrew Gallagher could take that away. Dean had heard Sammy during the epic vision-induced freak-out that had led them here. “He was smiling, Dean,” his brother had confessed. “He actually wished the teller a good afternoon before he started shooting. Like there was nothing wrong, nothing to fight against.” Dean completely empathized. The poor schmuck hadn’t even been able to wish he wasn’t going to die. Even demon possession let you do that.

 

“Tell me why you aren’t high,” 

“Winchester men take more to intoxicate,” Dean’s mouth spoke without him. “Something in the genes, I guess. Also, I only had one joint, and you had the entire economy-sized bong, so that might be a factor.” Okay, that had been freaky. Maybe placating wasn’t so bad after all. “Listen, man, my partner’s gonna be looking for me. How about you let me get up off this couch…”

“Don’t worry, Winchester, buddy,” the super-powered pothead interrupted him, “I’ve got an idea. Hey, is Winchester really your name? It’s kind of funny.”

“Yeah, I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean pulled himself up straight and looked Gallagher in the eyes. He’d stared down demons. He could handle this. “And whatever you’re about to do to me, just know that I DO have a gun, and whenever the mojo wears off, I’m gonna use your current actions to decide whether to shoot you in your kneecap or your face.”

The man stopped short, swallowed, and blinked twice. Dean stood firm. Then a chuckle burst from the man’s throat. “Dude, you’re one scary scaredy cat,” he managed to choke out.

So, yeah, Dean was fucked. Sure, Gallagher didn’t seem in a killing mood right now, but just because the Wendigo had a full stomach didn’t make it safe to be tied up in its larder.

“Give me the gun,” he heard, and it seemed like such a good idea to give the gun to Andy that he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it himself…until the .45 was out of his waistband and in the mind-creep’s instead. Why had he mentioned the gun? If he’d just kept quiet instead of threatening the guy, he’d still be armed. 

“Here’s my idea: I’m going to get you high. Because it’s just sad that you’ve never been.” Dean was offended for a moment; of course he’d been high before. It just took a little extra effort, same as with alcohol. Dad had always said that Winchester men had good constitutions, and that his father and grandfather had been the same way. Take Sammy, for example. His brother was a complete wuss in most respects, but he’d drunk all their alcohol after getting accepted to Stanford, probably two fifths of whiskey all told, and lived to barf another morning. That shit killed civvies. 

Then the other part of what the pothead said hit him. “You’re gonna get me high? Sorry, Mr. Forethought, I think you already smoked all the…” and that was when Dean finally got it. Well, shit. It was insane, but Dean actually had a moment of relief that he didn’t have his gun anymore. The thought of going through what was coming with a gun at his belt, of smiling and giggling when the whole time he could shoot this man in the face and just didn’t…Dean had to swallow again.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Dean.” Andy moved to put a hand on his shoulder, and Dean grabbed his arm and tugged him into a headlock, because he would be damned if his last act as a free man was letting this creep pet him. Somehow it worked, and Dean wildly punched Gallagher in the mouth, trying to shove his fist down the other man’s throat and pin his tongue along the way.

“HAAAAGH!” Dean’s muscles froze. “Ghe ooh ay o ah hy ah.” He somehow understood perfectly, and taking his hand out of the guy’s mouth seemed like a good idea. “Go sit on the couch.” He sat. “STAY.” Andy took a moment to collect himself. “Now, you really need to forget about trying to hurt me. Same for stopping me from speaking: no more thinking about it. Like how you forgot about trying to leave. Okay, Dean?”

“Okay,” Dean heard himself say. Andy sat down on the coffee table directly opposite, close enough that their knees brushed. “Dude, could you please not touch me?” It felt wrong to be pleading, but he couldn’t think of what else to do. At least it came out snarky. The man ignored him.

 

“So, first you need to completely relax, okay? Deep breaths, and then loosen all your muscles.” Andy took a deep breath from his empty bong to demonstrate, and Dean felt himself echo the gesture. As his chest lowered, his jaw unclenched, and it felt like someone emptying a pail of milk over his head, cold and thick and soft, as every muscle relaxed, from his eyelids down, down to his shoulders, the knots in his stomach untwisting, his legs splaying, until even his pinky toes seemed…at peace. His brain, though, was still functioning. He still knew he was screwed. He was in the thrall of someone Sammy’s age with all the restraint and emotional maturity required to airbrush a barbarian queen riding a polar bear onto the side of his van, who was currently three-quarters-baked. Someone who shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery was currently operating him. He wished that he felt like throwing up.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Andy asked, taking his suddenly unresisting hand experimentally. 

“Peachy,” Dean mumbled, head lolling on one shoulder. He couldn’t even see whether the twerp was laughing at him, because his eyes refused to open.

“Dean, look at me.” Blinking his eyes open, he saw an expression of concern on the other man’s face. “I’m not making you actually high on weed, you know, just describing it. I’m sending you on a trip, and I don’t want it to be a bad trip by accident. So, I need you to tell me exactly how you feel. You need to be completely honest, okay? You know that.” And suddenly, he did. Terrifying as it was, that his senses were about to be commandeered by a pothead freak, it’d be so much worse if the man were driving blind. He nodded, and Andy smiled, squeezing the hand he was still holding. “Great! Tell me how you’re doing, Dean.” 

Dean took stock of himself. Physically, he felt exactly how Andy had told him to feel. Which wasn’t helping his mental state much. “Completely relaxed. Freaked the fuck out,” he finally answered.

Andy laughed, and if Dean could have trembled, he would have, because he knew what was coming next. He wanted to ask Andy not to, but damned if he would beg. He kept his mouth shut. What he wouldn’t give to be able to clench his jaw, or turn his face away, or even shiver. But his muscles were still limp. All he could do was listen as Andy spoke. “Calm down, then. No more worries, no more fear or anger, no more stupid job that makes you wear a suit. Just relax, Dean, and let go of all the bad.”

The same calm, milky feeling that had dripped over his muscles now seemed to seep through his ears and nostrils and into his brain, coating it, sinking into the creases, washing away all the pain and horror of the past twenty-three years. Objectively, he knew that he was in trouble. Still, there wasn’t anything he could do about it, so there wasn’t any point worrying. With a sigh, he let it all go.

“Tell me how you’re feeling, Dean. Remember to be honest with me.” Oh, right. Gallagher’s still here. 

“At peace, mostly. Calm. Cool. Maybe a little sleepy. Definitely not worried, even though I should be,” Dean answered. He remembered how important it was to be completely honest, even though he’d rather just say “fine” and let himself drift.

“That’s great, Dean! See, you just needed to loosen up a little.” Milky cool relaxation was washing over his body and pooling in his brain, even though by all rights he should be terrified. No doubt about it: Andy was one powerful little freak. “Except, you said you were feeling sleepy, right? Well, feel happy instead. Warm, content. Like life’s an oyster, or your soul’s just morphed into a dog getting its belly scratched, or you’ve got rosy lenses,” Gallagher cut off with a laugh. “And your mouth should be running off with stupid stuff that’s just hilarious.” 

Dean’s bones started to hum, and he kind of felt like hugging himself. The hum in his bones was nothing, though, compared to the hum in his brain. The fatalistic peace he had felt a moment ago cracked apart and fell off, like his brain was an industrial strength drier and his sleepy defeat was nothing but a pile of quarters that had been resting on it. He giggled at the image. It was a stupid idea, but he was just so…happy. How long had it been since he felt happy? Since before Dad died for him; that was sure. He giggled again. “Tell me how you’re feeling, Dean,” Andy ordered, and Dean snorted.

“How do you think I’m doing, Andy? I’m happy. I should be pissing my pants or something, but instead I’m…bouncy.” The word seemed to tickle the tip of his tongue, and he giggled. “There’s alliteration in my head,” he informed Andy, and suddenly the other man was giggling too. 

“See? I knew you could be fun. It was the car: no one who’s a complete tool would drive a car that awesome.” The twerp laughed again, before frowning in thought. “But the whole, ‘I should be scared’ thing’s kind of a downer. I mean, I know you’re not actually scared anymore, but it kind of hurts my feelings.”

Dean had to wipe tears from his eyes at this point, he was laughing so hard. “You stole my car, kidnapped me, whammied like a million debt collectors, probably killed a man, made yourself a Swedish love-slave, and now you’re mad I hurt your feelings.” Dean couldn’t stop giggling. He could barely breathe. In fact, if Andy didn’t stop letting loose with zingers like that, Dean might very well die from lack of oxygen.

“Hey! That’s not fair!” Andy protested. “Or if it is, I’d rather think about it when I’m sober.” They laughed together at that. “Seriously, though, Dean, stop giggling and look at me.” Dean took a couple of grateful, gasping breaths before making eye contact with the pothead. He was catching his breath, and didn’t seem to be laughing anymore. Instead, he looked…determined. Like he thought he’d had another good idea. Cue the scary music, Dean thought with a smile. 

“I don’t have any special powers, Dean. Forget that you ever thought I did. People listen to me because I’m right,” Andy said…Dean had forgotten the first part of what he had said, but it was true that Andy was right a lot. That was why everyone listened to him. He was right about how Dean felt smoking pot…except he wasn’t smoking, was he? 

“My head hurts,” he whispered because he needed to tell Andy how he felt, needed to be completely honest. Andy had said so, and Andy was right. “I don’t understand why I feel…” why did he feel like this? Why was he so…”happy?” Blood dripped from Andy’s nose, and Dean licked copper from his own lip.

“You’re happy because you smoked a joint.” Andy seemed nervous, somehow. Also, his brow was wrinkled like he had a headache, too. “Forget everything you know about weed. That was your first ever joint. You’ve never even seen someone high before, not even in movies. You don’t know anything about weed.” Then again, what did Dean know? Maybe weed gave everyone nosebleeds and raging headaches. Seemed like a stupid thing to take if it did, but maybe not many people took it. “And I’m a pot expert, so I’m here to tell you what you’re going to feel before you start to feel it, so that you won’t be scared.” 

Andy had been talking pretty fast, sort of throwing out words like Dean did when his cover was nearly blown, but now he seemed to have hit an idea, and he scooped up Dean’s other hand, so that Andy’s two hands trapped Dean’s two hands beneath Andy’s chin, and they were staring into each other’s eyeballs. Dean thought to bring up the sudden lack of personal space, but Andy seemed really intent on this, and Dean’s head really hurt. 

“Remember how scared you were, Dean, how terrified you were a little while ago, before I told you what you were going to feel.” Dean listened because Andy was right, he should really focus on how scared he’d been, how his jaw had clenched and his throat had gone dry, and how he’d tried to swallow surreptitiously, worried Andy would see. And on the blinding terror when his muscles had gone limp, his brain still gibbering, knowing that no matter what brave words he said, it was only a matter of time before…

”You’re doing great, Dean. Now, think about how peaceful you were once I told you how you were going to feel.” Like milk, he remembered, soothing away his pain and fear. “Focus on how happy you are right now. Even with that monster headache, you just can’t stop being happy, can you, now that you aren’t scared. Focus on how good it feels not to be scared.” He was buzzing inside, and he had been laughing so hard he thought he would die, but Andy had told him to stop laughing and let him take deep breaths of fresh air. And even dying hadn’t been a worrying thought. Without the fear, he could just be happy. It was nice.

“You’re so grateful, Dean. Focus on how grateful you are not to be scared anymore.” Andy was right. Dean wanted to thank him, but the man kept talking and Dean didn’t want to interrupt. Andy leaned forward, eyes intent, and suddenly his voice was awesome, like an earthquake rattling Dean’s bones. “Remember: People only listen to me because I’m right. You always listen to me because I’m always right. You just smoked your very first joint, and have no idea what it will be like. You’re so glad I’m here.” Dean realized he had mouthed these last words to himself, but couldn’t really work up any embarrassment. Andy’s always right…very first joint… I’m so glad Andy’s here. The words were so right they pricked pins and needles into his brain, like a limb falling asleep when someone lay on it. 

“My headache’s gone,” Dean realized as soon as he said it out loud. 

“Yeah, I figured. Sometimes when I talk, I can be a little…confusing. That gives people headaches. Mostly, though, they find that if they keep listening, I explain everything and they end up feeling even better. Like you, Dean. You’re so relieved you heard me out. You’ll be sure to do it again if you ever get headaches. You like my voice.” Dean did like the sound of Andy’s voice, especially the way it seemed to vibrate his bones when it echoed. He was so relieved that he’d listened to Andy. 

“What about your headache?” Dean asked, concerned. He gestured to the blood on Andy’s upper lip. 

“Huh? Oh,” Andy headed to the hall. There was the sound of running water, and he came back with a damp washcloth and a clean upper lip. “It’s hard work being right all the time. But that’s sort of a trade secret, so forget it ever happened, okay?”

“Okay.” In a way, Dean felt even better now that this had happened. It meant that if he got another headache, he’d know right away that the best way to get rid of it was to keep listening to Andy. Speaking of which…

“Hey, man, thanks for being with me for my first joint. We both know I’d be freaking out if you weren’t here to talk me through it.” Dean wasn’t big on thank-yous, but he remembered how terrified he’d been, and he was so grateful for Andy’s help, so glad he was there. He threw out the patented Dean Winchester smile.

“Oh, well you’re welcome, Buddy,” Andy looked down and rubbed the top of his nose, blushing. He must be uncomfortable with thank-yous too. “Hey, speaking of, you’re gonna start feeling tired pretty soon.”

“Really?” It wasn’t that Dean was questioning Andy, Andy was always right. Only, he’d been so excited and happy for the past few minutes, buzzing almost, and now that Andy had explained things and his headache was gone, he was feeling even better.

“Really. As soon as we’re done talking, you’ll yawn and all your energy will disappear. I’ll touch your forehead and you’ll fall asleep, completely dead to the world. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean yawned, and his energy popped like a soap bubble in a bath: sudden, but with childlike wonder. “Wow,” he blinked, and his eyes felt heavy. Andy held out a damp washcloth, and Dean barely had the energy to tilt up his face and let the guy wipe under his nose. Andy loosened Dean’s tie and took off his coat, placing them over the gun and cell-phone on the side table. Dean watched with vague interest as his friend bent over and began tugging at his feet. Soon his own sandals and Dean’s dress shoes lay together just to the left of the couch. 

“What the hell am I doing?” Andy whispered, and Dean would have asked what he meant…but then Andy touched his forehead, and Dean sank into the warm comfort of oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is originally from a kink meme prompt "Andy and Dean get high and have sex while watching porn," but it's drifted rather far.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up, Dean, but keep your eyes closed.” It was Andy, of course. “I need to tell you about the next phase you’ll go through. This one’s fun: Everything’s going to look different. Magical, kind of. Ready?” Dean nodded. “Okay, open your eyes.”

The first thing Dean noticed was that sometime during his nap he’d been possessed by a cuddle-demon. He carefully unwrapped his arms from around Andy’s waist, slipped his knee from between the man’s legs, and lifted himself off and away. He wasn’t scared, of course, Andy had told him what to expect. That didn’t stop him from being embarrassed. Rubbing the back of his neck, he directed his gaze to the far wall. “Look, man, I…” He trailed off. The wall was different, somehow.

“Yes?” It was Andy’s voice, but whatever Dean had been about to say didn’t matter. There was something about the wall. “You want to look closer, don’t you?” Dean nodded helplessly, even though he knew he couldn’t leave the couch. Andy had told him to sit, and to stay. But the wall was so… “Dean, why don’t you stand up and look around?” Andy suggested. Andy always had such good ideas. “Everything you see will fascinate you.” With a murmured thanks, Dean rose.

It was weird, and impossible to explain, but Dean spent the next hour or more looking around the room. Sometimes he didn’t recognize what he was looking at. Sometimes he did, but it was so bright and complex that he couldn’t stop looking at it anyway. Sometimes he knew what he was looking at only to forget halfway through. Dean couldn’t find any pattern to it, but that was okay, because Andy would always warn him a second or so beforehand, so he wasn’t afraid. 

“Hey, Dean, look at me for a minute.” Dean looked up from where he had been staring at the remote control- so many buttons – and met Andy’s eyes across the room. He looked nervous, guilty almost, scratching the back of his head and refusing to meet Dean's eyes. “You know, I’m a thing, too,” the man began hesitantly, “and in a few minutes I’m going to be..." he swallowed before blurting out, "I'm going to be the most incredible thing in the room. You’re going to want nothing but to come over here to the couch and…you don’t have to touch me, just, sit next to me and look at me like I’m special? Really special, like, as exciting as the refrigerator magnets. That’s all I want…ed…to warn you about, man.” Andy rubbed the top of his nose awkwardly as he finished, stealing glances at Dean to gauge his reaction to the news.

Dean had to gauge his own reaction, too. “Um, thanks for telling me.” On the one hand, he was really grateful that Andy was there. That would be scary as hell if it snuck up on him. On the other hand, it was kind of nerve-wracking knowing it was coming. “You normally don’t give me so much of a heads-up.” Dean had actually been poking at the notion of asking Andy to give his warnings a little sooner, or maybe give a timeline of everything to expect. Now, as he caught his eyes tracing the pattern of Andy’s stubble, he realized that the prep time was worse. There wasn’t exactly a way to prepare, apart from biting his nails and wringing his hands.

“I know, I know,” Andy commiserated. “I’m sorry.” His eyebrows rose at the center, and furrowed a little with worry. Dean tore his gaze away from the way that made the skin wrinkle, and focused on the carpet.

“It’s not your fault,” he growled, but softened his tone when he saw Andy flinch. It crinkled the shoulders of his T-shirt, making darker and lighter shades of black. When had he looked up at Andy again? He turned to face the clock. “Listen, man, I’m glad you’re here, really. I just wish I’d never smoked that stupid joint. Or that this was all over. There’s an idea: could you hit me over the head and wake me up when I’m sober? How much longer do I have, anyway?” Dean was looking straight at the clock, but it was still off somehow, and the sound of a throat clearing behind him broke his concentration.

“You don’t mean that, Dean. You’re glad you smoked the joint. You felt good before, right? And you’ll feel good again, soon.” Andy was right. Andy was always right. Dean was glad he’d smoked the joint, despite the rough phase ahead. He nodded.

“Does it…does the thought of having to look at me like that…disgust you?” Andy asked.

“No,” Dean’s face turned to meet Andy’s, to show his sincerity. Andy was wearing a necklace, and it was hard to tell from so far away whether the beads were wood or plastic. “I’m embarrassed is all. I don’t want to be staring at anyone like that, not even Lisa Braden, and she was hot and bendy.” Dean couldn’t get his head to turn away again. It was bad enough being so far away. He would be able to see Andy better on the couch.

“This can’t be the first time you’ll ever act like an idiot,” Andy offered. The table was in front of Andy’s legs. Dean had to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep still, wondering exactly how worn the knees of Andy’s jeans were.

“Hah, no.” He’d be able to see Andy’s jeans from the couch. His feet, too: he couldn’t remember whether Andy’s first or second toe was longer. He needed to move so he could…Dean shook his head furiously. “Still, when I drool over a cheeseburger or a tight skirt, I don’t really mean it. I’ll turn on a dime and gank whatever evil creep walks past, cheeseburger or no.” He almost wanted to turn away, because looking at Andy like this, from so very far away, and from the front instead of the side, was wrong somehow, causing a strain in his eyes like a TV with bad reception. He dug his fingernails deeper into his palms. “This’ll be different. I’ll be…earnest. Helpless.” Dean itched to be on the couch, examining the shape of Andy’s fingernails. “Pathetic.”

“Well, don’t feel like that. You’re just a guy having his first joint while his friend looks after him. You’re entitled. Okay?” His bones seemed to shiver for a moment while he realized how right Andy was, that he shouldn’t be embarrassed or nervous. Andy would look out for him. Andy was his friend. “How do you feel, Dean?” 

“I…” it was important to be absolutely honest with Andy when he asked this question. Dean knew that. He tried to take stock of himself, but now that Andy had talked him out of his insecurities, all he really felt was…”Wiggly. I need to…I can see you better from the couch. Can I?”

“Of course! Yeah, just let me scoot out of your way, and…” Dean watched the way Andy’s muscles bunched under his shirt, the gentle skid of the pillow beneath him, and his hands, the way the fingers clenched and the metacarpals flashed and were hidden. Dean wasn’t even aware of crossing the room, but sat down next to Andy and turned a little, and it was perfect, just what Dean wanted, the only thing he wanted. Andy’s throat hitched as he swallowed, the little knot of cartilage bobbing, and Dean had to gasp, because it was just, incredible. A flush started at Andy’s cheeks, and Dean’s eyes traced its spread across his skin. “So, Dean, how do you feel?”

The response came slowly, because he knew he needed to answer the question, but he didn’t want to. The only thing he wanted was to sit on this couch and keep looking at the man beside him. “Fascinated. Content.” 

“Content?”

“I have the only thing I want.”

“Oh? Oh! Oh yeah, that’s…really sweet. Um, are you comfortable? I don’t want you getting a crick in your neck or anything.” Dean mentally combed Andy’s hair, trying to decide if the bump on the left side was a knot or a cowlick. “Dean? Why don’t you put your right leg up on the seat of the couch, okay?” He had to move his leg, and it jostled his view a little, but he was still looking at Andy, so that was okay. “And then your right arm over the top.” He barely registered the change, mapping the way Andy’s eyebrows moved when he spoke. “And move that pillow so it’s behind your back.” This was tougher, but Andy pointed at the pillow, and once Dean knew roughly where it was, he could find it in a few clumsy swipes without ever needing to look away. He put the pillow behind his back. “Good. Does that feel better?” Andy’s shirt had a tear at the bottom of the sleeve that had been visible when he had pointed. Dean searched his clothes for other holes. 

“Screw it. You feel comfortable now, Dean, more comfortable than you’ve ever been. You’re not tired, though. In fact you feel like you could stare at me for days, which is…” he coughed, and the quick clench of fist to lips was engrossing “…which is the only thing you want, the only thing you can imagine ever wanting.” 

Dean managed to mumble a thanks, because Andy was right, his new position was incredible, sort of like the time he’d had to visit a chiropractor as part of a gig in Nantuckett. One little twist, and aches and pains that hadn’t even registered were suddenly gone. He’d be much more comfortable looking at Andy now. Still, it wasn’t too big a deal, because he would have kept looking regardless. A crick in his neck? Dean would have sat on this couch looking at Andy if his ribs were cracked. It was everything he could ever want. “You’re a sick fuck, Gallagher,” Dean heard the man mutter, and watched the way a sigh blew through his lips.

Something about the tone had Dean glancing down at Andy’s lap, and the slow swell beneath the cloth there. “Oh!” Andy’s hands were suddenly covering his tented pants. “No, that isn’t for you! That’s for…” he lunged across the table for the remote, and Dean saw that the underwear peaking out from his waistband was blue with some sort of print. Superman, maybe? Inside, he felt itchy. All he wanted was to sit next to Andy on the couch, but Andy wasn’t on the couch anymore. He let out a small grunt of discomfort. “That’s for the, hold on a second,” Andy sat back down next to Dean and began flipping through channels. Dean sighed in relief. He could perfectly see the indent that Andy’s shiny teeth were making on his lower lip. “There! Yeah, the boner is totally for the porn, not for you.” Andy was right, Andy was always right, his arousal was for the porn he was watching. It was still incredible to see. So was his sage-green belt. What was it woven from, hemp?

The door clattered open, followed by rustling bags and clicking heels and a woman’s voice, “Andy, sweetie, I was hoping you’d be here! I stopped off at the store on my way home from work and got all the fixings for meatloaf and asparagus. That’s your favorite, right? Hold on, let me go change…Andy? Who’s your friend? And…is that porn?!” Dean made a noise of protest. He didn’t want to pay attention to anything but Andy, but this new woman was so loud. 

“Sarah, hold on a minute. Don’t do anything. Dean, I’m going to give you my hand. As soon as I do, you’re going to realize that it’s not just… um…”

“Incredible,” Dean offered, because that was the word for any part of Andy. His eyes were incredibly fast, the way they jerked between Dean and the woman.

“Right.” He laughed, and Dean watched the battle between hysterical giggles and nervous swallowing play out in his throat. “Well, as soon as I give you my hand, you’re going to realize that it’s not just incredible, but enthralling. You’ll be so engrossed in how it looks and feels that you won’t hear a word Sarah or I say until I take it back. Okay?

“Okay.” Really, it sounded better than okay, because he hadn’t wanted to pay attention to Sarah any…

The hand was soft, free of the calluses of hunting. Not one of the twenty-seven bones had ever been broken. The sparse hair on the bottom joint of each digit was deep brown, as was that on the back, growing thicker down towards the wrist. And the other side had so many lines, from the whorls and arches on the fingertips to the deep, thick creases on the palm. All the fingers twitched the first time Dean traced the lifeline. There was a tiny, v-shaped scar on the index finger’s knuckle. Dean happily explored every inch of skin, and then went over it again to commit it to memory, and again just because he could.

The hand was gently pulled away, and Dean felt a sharp pang of loss as the world came rushing back in. “Hey, no. Don’t worry, Buddy,” Andy was saying, peering with concern into Dean’s suddenly desperate eyes. “The, um, the joint’s wearing…well, no, it’s not wearing off yet, but it’s hitting a lull. And just in time for dinner.” Dean blinked twice as the pot’s affects went on hiatus. As his head cleared, he realized he’d just been fondling Andy’s hand, and before that he had been staring like some sort of slack-jawed, lovesick… “None of that either. Sure, you were a little out of it, but you’re with a friend. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” Dean really liked it when Andy’s voice went all echoing. It was like he could feel the rightness of the words shaking his bones. You have nothing to be ashamed of. 

“Okay, Andy.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. He’d gelled it down at some point. He stood up, figuring he should take advantage of both not being captivated by the couch and remembering what a mirror was to style his hair back to normal. “You said dinner was ready? Meatloaf and asparagus, right?” God, he looked like a tool. He took off the tie and undid the top couple buttons. 

“Actually, Sarah went back out for buns and potatoes. She made us burgers and fries.” 

“Huh.” Wow, Dean had been out of it for a while. He tried popping his collar, but it made his reflection look a little douchey. He fixed the collar and rolled up his sleeves. He gave himself a once-over and noticed his socks, blinking before seeing dress shoes next to the couch. With a sigh, he plopped himself back down and laced them on.

“You need shoes to eat a hamburger?”

“Never know when something might need a good kicking.” Both shoes double-knotted, he stood back up and posed. “How do I look?”

“Like an already gorgeous guy who just spent two minutes primping.”

“Dude!” he protested, “That was not two minutes.” Andy smirked. “And that was not primping.” Andy raised an eyebrow. “And I do not look like I primped. I have it on good authority that this hair is ‘artfully disheveled’, meaning it looks like I didn’t spend any time on it.” Andy’s other eyebrow joined the first. Dean admitted he was laying it on a little thick, but the man had wiped his nose and got him ready for nap-time. Dignity was a smudge in the rear-view mirror. Might as well have fun.

Sarah was fun. She had already scored points by making burgers and fries from scratch, and on top of that she was sexy, confident, and wearing a short skirt, three of Dean’s favorite qualities in a woman. The way her apron-strings dangled was inspired. Dean started flirting with her before he even sat down at the table, just a friendly little once-over, a bright smile, and a murmur that anything of hers was sure to be delicious. 

That was before Andy leaned over and whispered into his ear, “Actually, because of the joint, all food is unbelievably delicious,” just as Dean popped the first ketchup-laden fry into his mouth. After that, Dean only pretended to flirt to disguise that the happy hamburger faces he was making were 100% genuine. Same for the moans. He was doing his best Harry-Met-Sally impression over the cherry crumble when Andy’s fork dropped with a clatter.

“Sarah, you’ve had a long day. Go to bed.” Without a word, she stood up and left the room. It took Dean a few moments to form a response.

“Dude, what was that?” he protested. “There’s being right, and then there’s being an ass. You didn’t even thank her for dinner!”

“Right. I’ll do that in the morning. She’ll forgive me, she always does.” Andy’s laugh was brittle. “Anyway, I didn’t think you’d want her to see the next phase.”

“When’s that?” Dean asked as he licked the last cherry smears from his plate. “Mmmm. God, that tastes good.”

“Soon,” Andy replied a little breathily. “First, let’s go back to the den.” He almost stood up, but then sat right back down. “On second thought, you go ahead. I’ll just…clean up in here. I’m sure Sarah will appreciate it.”

“I’ll help,” Dean offered.

“No!” Andy squeaked, and then coughed. “No, Dean. Go back to the den and listen to some music. It’ll sound incredible.” Dean had no doubt. If just Andy’s voice sounded that good, he couldn’t imagine what music would be like. He was hoping he could scrounge up some Zeppelin. As he walked back into the other room, however, there was already music and giggling from where Andy had left the TV on. Dean had just long enough to hate his life before the bow-chica-wow washed over him. Andy was right. It was incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't remember Sarah, she's the woman who was hanging out of the window, wearing black lace and waving goodbye to Andy the morning the brothers first saw him. No, Show didn't give her a name or an occupation, so I made them up.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, Dean, the hearing thing’s going away, now.” Dean came to sprawled in front of the couch, and hastily wiped the magic-fingers-level smile off his face. Andy was sitting on the seat directly above him, staring. Dean rolled to a sitting position and scratched the back of his neck for a moment before realizing that Sarah was asleep, and Andy was his friend. Dean didn’t need to be embarrassed, and Andy could stop with the funny faces any time.

He raised his head defiantly, and gave the other man a Patented Dean Winchester Smirk. “See something you like?” he teased, hoping to send Andy scrambling to the other side of the couch. The whimper he got was almost as good.

And then there was a hand in his hair.

“Um, Dude? What the hell?” He was about to pull away on reflex, but then his friend told him to keep still.

“This feels nice. You don’t actually want me to stop. It’s comforting.” Andy was right. The hand on his head felt like it was grounding him after all the chaos of the day. It’d be a shame to move it.

“Scoot back a little and lean against my leg. There, that’s better. You feel all better now. Warm, peaceful. Safe. ” It was sort of like leaning against the side door in the Impala, with a rainstorm pounding outside. It was softer, though, warmer, more complete. It was Dad’s hug right after the shtriga, the way he had bundled Sammy up and pressed his cheek against his youngest son’s head, shielding him from the world, only now, finally, it was Dean’s turn. All his muscles shivered like the end of a too-long run, his eyes burned, and he tried to burrow even closer to Andy’s leg. “Hey, shh, it’s okay. Just focus on my fingers combing your hair, and scratching your scalp. You like it a lot. It makes it hard to think, though, hard to focus on anything but how warm and good you feel.”

“Safe,” Dean whispered, and closed his eyes. They sat together for a long time.

Andy shifted every time the women on screen squealed or moaned, but he never made a move to turn it off or change the channel, just gripped Dean’s hair a bit uncomfortably and then gently smoothed it out again. The smoothing it out was nice.

“My hand feels really good.” Andy told him eventually. Dean just nodded. “No, I mean, comforting, sure, but now it feels good, like how things looked good this afternoon, or tasted good at dinner, or sounded good a couple minutes ago. Your entire scalp is sensitized, and everything feels good.” Oh. Dean felt it now, like bolts of pleasure shooting through him every time Andy’s fingers moved. He raised his head, trying to press up into the source of the pleasure and almost dislodging it by accident. “Try to keep still, though,” Andy chastised. “You want to stay as still and quiet as you can.”

Andy passed long moments gently raking his fingernails along Dean’s scalp, leaving him gasping and trembling. He would almost manage to calm himself, and then Andy would stroke his head again. His hand finally lightened enough to let Dean catch his breath, and then found a lock of hair and gave a short tug, making Dean’s breath hitch in pleasure.

“Come sit up next to me.” Andy’s hand disappeared from Dean’s head as he said it, and Dean practically scrambled onto the couch, arranging himself as Andy suggested, and then closing his eyes and holding perfectly still again, trembling in anticipation of the hand gently carding through his hair. He huffed in disappointment when the hand went for his cheek, instead. Andy chuckled.

“It’s not just your hair, you know,” he explained. “Anywhere our bodies touch feels amazing.” And it was true; Dean’s skin came alive under the thumb softly tracing his jaw. Andy’s fingers traced his forehead, nose, lips, the curve of his ear and the back of his neck. Dean was panting and quivering by the time the fingers slid down towards his sternum and stopped on the bare skin just above the fastened third button.

“Clothing is different, though. You can’t feel my skin through the cloth, so it doesn’t feel good. It just feels like the potential for good. Achy and hot. Turturous. Tantalizing.” One finger inched down and tapped the third button. Dean grunted at the sharp stab of want, and Andy chuckled. “See?” Both hands ran deliberately down the length of his chest, nails scratching against nipples along the way, and Dean whimpered. “How are you feeling, Dean?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Dean swallowed. “Off. Off please.” And that was as coherent as he could get with Andy lazily rubbing his stomach over his goddamn stupid dress shirt.

The next few minutes were a hazy pendulum between desire and satisfaction. Andy would run his hand over Dean’s clothed body, Dean would squirm and whimper in desperation, Andy would remove the offending garment and run his hand along the bare skin underneath, and then Dean would squirm and whimper in relief. Soon enough, Dean was naked except for the amulet around his neck and the bowie strapped to his leg.

“How are you feeling Dean?” Andy asked, rubbing his hand along skin he had just liberated from Dean’s boxerbriefs. All Dean could manage was a moan. “That’s good. All your inhibitions are dropping away. You can’t help moaning, and whimpering, and gasping, anytime you feel something you like, which if you haven’t figured out yet, is everything. You’re allowed to move again, but you’ll have trouble with your arms and legs. It’s not that they’re limp or anything, it’s just hard to coordinate anything through all the pleasure you’re feeling.”

Andy’s hand was in Dean’s lap, wrapped around him, and all he could manage to do was writhe and moan. The hand squeezed, and Dean arched up and hitched out a sob… And then it was suddenly gone.

“Hang on, I have to go get something.” As Andy scrambled down the hall, Dean concentrated on taking deep, gasping breaths. He heard some boxes falling in another room, and got impatient, trying to finish things himself, but his hand wasn’t right, it felt muffled, like when he still had his boxers on, and it set up the same ache, and he shouldn’t have done that, he just wanted…

“I’m sorry, babe,” Andy crooned, replacing Dean’s hand with his own in soft, patient strokes, and Dean sobbed in relief. “I know I left you all alone. Hush, I’m back, all the pleasure is back, and I’m going to use my mouth some. That’s even better than my hands.” Andy’s unoccupied hand brushed at the dampness on Dean’s lashes, prompting him to open his eyes. A foil square was swiftly pushed into his line of sight.

“This is the best thing ever made. I’m going to put it on you, but as soon as I put my mouth on it, you’ll feel better than you ever have.” There was a word for this, he knew, but was too lost in pleasure to find it.

Andy’s face lowered to Dean’s lap, and he practically mewled at the warmth. Feel better than I ever have. It was amazing. It was perfect. It was suddenly gone and he howled in protest.

“Come now, Dean.” Andy ordered, and Dean fell into a thermal of dazed-out bliss.

“Wait, don’t go to sleep! I haven’t…” Dean jerked awake and looked over at Andy, who was staring again. Dean looked down at himself. His friend had taken the condom off after the blowjob, but a few smears of white had been left behind. He was messy, drenched in sweat, and more than a little out of it. He was also still naked except for the amulet and the bowie. He looked back up at Andy, who swallowed. “Oh, I’m a bad person,” Andy whispered, so quietly that Dean decided not to believe him. 

“Hey, Dean, remember how you felt before about my hand?”

“Enthralling?” He remembered curiosity, fascination, and contentment. At the time it had been possibly the best moment of his life, though, looking down at himself, Dean reflected that by now it had some serious competition. Smoking pot wasn’t half bad.

“Right, well I just so happen to have something in my lap that’s just as great. Come see?” Does he honestly mean that the way it sounds? Andy pulled down his zipper. Huh, guess so. Then the man shimmied halfway out of his pants and underwear, which turned out to be spiderman, not superman, and Dean scooted closer for a better look.

“It’s fascinating to stroke up and down. Yeah, like that.” He shrugged onto his belly and lowered his chin to rest on Andy’s thigh.

“Look up at me. Keep doing what you’re doing with your hand, but now you need to see my eyes instead. Perfect. You look perfect, Dean, like you’re giving me a…never mind. Forget I said that.” His breathing deepened. “Feels so good. You like that, don’t you?” The pleasure of touching the other man’s skin rippled through him, and he couldn’t help letting out a desperate whimper. His eyes were still open, though. He still needed to stare up at Andy.

“Screw it.” Andy was looking pretty desperate himself. “I have to get something from the bathroom. Just stay like that. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

The next thing he knew, a square of foil suddenly filled his vision. “Dean? Remember this?” Dean smiled.

“Best thing ever made.”

Andy laughed nervously, “Yeah, I said that, didn’t I? Well, I’m going to put it over my…myself, and you’re going to lie back down how you were. “ It took some rearranging, but soon Dean’s chin was back on Andy’s thigh, and he was looking back up into his friend’s eyes.

“Remember how incredible everything tastes to you when you’re high?” Dean nodded. “So you know the ‘best thing ever made’ will taste even better.” Even though he really wanted to stare up at Andy’s face, his eyes started flickering towards the condom Andy was wearing. “Lick it,” Andy prompted. It tasted, okay, like rubber, but Andy was right, it was delicious. He moaned. “Again.” This time, Dean managed to look Andy in the eyes as he brushed it with his tongue. His friend’s face was flushed, and he kept looking at Dean like he was the best thing ever, and then looking away uncomfortably, and then letting his eyes fall back to Dean’s again like he just couldn’t help it. “It tastes like cherry crumb…STOP!”

“Off of me! Sit over there.” And then Andy was pacing. The amazing-feeling skin was out of reach, so all Dean could do was try to make eye contact, and every time they did, Andy scoffed and looked away. “Christ, you’re a twenty-seven-year-old secret government agent with a bowie knife, and you still makes me feel like a pedophile. How is that even possible? ‘Want to see the thing in my lap? Lick it, it tastes like cherries.’ I’m going to hell. I’m going to hell, and I’m not even getting laid first.”

Andy gave Dean a once-over and then stalked to the hall and came back with the green robe he had been wearing before, when…when? “Jesus Fudge, you look like a wet dream. Here, put this on before I make you do something I regret. And I should probably put on some pants.”

Dean was confused. He knew that Andy couldn’t make anyone do anything. People just listened to him because he was right. Except now he seemed to be implying… “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a great gift. I don’t have to work, I can smoke pot whenever I want, got caught up on all the books I never got around to reading, finally fixed up the van. It’s been like a year-long summer.” ‘Gift’ sounded like the psychic crap Sam and the other kids had. But Dean knew that Andy didn’t have any special powers. He must be wrong, Dean thought, head starting to pound, except he knew that Andy was always right. “When I first realized what was happening, I thought it would be even better. I thought, ‘Hey, I can make people do anything I want, ergo I can have anything I want.’ It’s not quite true, though.” The pacing slowed to a stop as Andy’s hands rose to rub his temples. “God, I have a headache.”

“Dean? Dean! Forget I said that. What did I say? That’s the second time in less than five hours. Note to self: no more mixing pot and superpowers. Just forget I said anything, okay? Just forget about whatever happened. You’re here with your good friend Andy, and you’re still high from earlier, but you can let the rest go.“

Dean came to with his good friend Andy holding his head and looking into his eyes. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, so are you. Are you okay?”

Dean negligently wiped at his upper lip with one thumb, taking stock of himself. “I think so. That was a motherfucker of a headache, but I think it’s over. Jesus. You always hear about weed being laced, but…am I naked under this kimono?”

“Technically, the term kimono only applies to…”

“Andy, focus! Why am I naked?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time?” The man tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Yeah, the little guy should be embarrassed. Dean was plenty mortified. He’d only had a little weed; it really shouldn’t have required a costume change.

Dean shook his head. “Seriously, what was in that joint?”

“Too late to figure it out now; we smoked it all. Why don’t we just…talk…and wait for it to wear off?” For a moment, it seemed like Andy was about to pat Dean’s bare knee, but Dean made a shooing motion with the knife he’d apparently been packing.

He rolled his eyes at the shorter man’s suddenly pale face before returning his scrutiny to the blade. It was the oak-handled bowie. Huh. Normally, he only bothered with the butterfly unless he was on a hunt. Shrugging, he re-sheathed it. “I should really get dressed. Sam’s probably worried that I haven’t checked in.” Dean stood up to rifle through the clothes stacked neatly on the side table. “Have you seen my gun? Or my cell?” He did a quick survey of the room and blanched. “Oh, God, please tell me we weren’t watching porn together.”

“Dean, relax. Tell me if your head hurts, okay? Sit down. We need to talk.” Dean nodded and sat back down.

“You said you were supposed to check in with your partner? When you don’t, or when you’re late, what are you normally doing?”

“A hot chick, but I call to let him know I’m alright. He’s gonna worry.”

“You should call and tell him you’re with Sarah.”

“But she’s asleep.”

“I know. I know lying is bad. Would you rather tell him that you met up with a friend to get high? While you were working? You don’t want him to worry, do you?” The way the last words echoed sent a friendly shiver through his bones.

“No.” No, Dean didn’t want Sam to worry. He reached for his phone and hit speed dial. “Hey Sammy.”

“Dean! I tried to call you like, five times. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“Sorry, Sam. I must have put it on silent.” He did vaguely remember doing this, back in the car. “I was questioning a witness, and I didn’t want to distract her.”

“Her?”

“Remember the girl in the window? Her name is Sarah, and she can make pie.”

“Wow. And meanwhile, I was just stopping a murder-suicide in the local gun store and watching the good doctor step in front of a bus.”

“What! Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Can’t find Andrew Gallagher, though. He’s not in his van. You were supposed to be tailing him; any idea where he went? I was going to check out Sarah’s house, but you seem to have that covered.”

Of course he knew where Andy was, but he didn’t want to worry Sam. “I have it more than covered. She made me a cheeseburger and fries for dinner, from scratch. And she wore this apron, and a skirt short enough for the apron strings to dangle below it just the tiniest bit…”

“You’re a pig. And you’ve obviously found your dreamgirl, so I won’t keep you. Thanks for finally checking in, Jerk.”

“No problem, Bitch. Have fun curling up with your laptop.”

“Yeah, whatever. Someone’s gotta do the research.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

He hung up to the sound of Sam’s spluttering. Some days, it was good to be the big brother.


	4. Chapter 4

He sighed and turned to Andy, who was staring at him in a way that made him uncomfortably aware that he was only wearing a silk bathrobe.

“So, you have one-night-stands a lot, huh?” the younger man asked.

“Listen, Andy, don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s not exactly a topic I feel comfortable discussing semi-naked while watching porn in a room with another dude.”

“You feel comfortable,” Andy insisted. “We’re such good friends that you feel perfectly comfortable with the porn, and the robe, which I happen to know feels very comfortable against bare skin. And while we’re at it, you’re comfortable with the fact that you’re naked in the same robe that I was naked in yesterday. That’s just how good of friends we are. Besides, we’re high. We’re supposed to talk about random stuff. You feel perfectly comfortable having this conversation with me. How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“So, you have one night stands a lot?”

If they weren’t such good friends, Dean would feel a little uncomfortable with how focused Andy was. He shrugged and answered the question. “Most of the time I’m only flirting. Sometimes we’ll shack up for the night. Once in a blue moon I’ll go for something longer, but it never works out.”

“So how often is sometimes?”

“I dunno, maybe every other week or so?”

“And the girls just go for that? I suppose you’re pretty enough.”

Dean smirked. “I am indeed a handsome devil, but I still maintain it’s the attitude. I’m up front about what I want, and that I’m just passing through. You’d be amazed how many women are open to a night with a hot guy who’ll still respect them in the morning.”

“But don’t you leave in the morning? That doesn’t seem very respectful.”

“I have to leave; it’s in the job description. No make-believe about 2.5 kids, no playing that I’m a broken little boy for them to fix, no whispers about true love. I have sex with them because I think they’re sexy, and they know that, and it’s still true in the morning, and if I ever came back to town I’d want to have sex with them again.”

“You never lie to them?”

“Of course I lie; they’re civilians. But only about my name and my job, and since both are better than whatever crap I tell them, it’s not really lying, is it? Or at least, it’s not manipulating them.”

“So then you never feel like you’re taking advantage of them? Even though you’re using them for sex?”

“They’re using me right back. And what’s wrong with that? It’s good sex.”

“Isn’t sex better when you’re in love, though?”

“I dunno, man, I’ve only been the once, and that sex was pretty darn incredible to start with. I respect them, though, and worship their bodies, and mostly that’s enough to get by. At least, I’ve never had any complaints.” He shot Andy a smirk at this point. It was reflexive, and a little dirty. Andy swallowed.

“Okay. Listen carefully, Dean, here’s what we’re going to do.”

 

* * *

 

The room was dark, smoky, and a little hard to focus on once he caught sight of the hottie at the bar.

Dean had never hit on a man before. It wasn’t an overcompensating thing; there were only two people whose opinions he cared about, and Sam wasn’t here and wouldn’t care, and Dad was dead. Every once in a blue moon, Dean would see a man who warranted a once-over, but then they would smile like Sam, or stand like Dad, or listen like Pastor Jim, or on one horrifying occasion curse like Bobby, and Dean would leave them be. Women were just themselves.

This guy, though, it was like the minute he saw him, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, _He’s absolutely gorgeous. He turns you on, and nothing he does will turn you back off_. So even though he’d never hit on a man, and it had taken him a few years of hitting on girls back in the day to learn how not to get slapped, he figured it was worth a shot. Worst he could do was say no, right?

Sometimes for a hunt, he’d spice things up and vary his pattern a little, play it more professional until he had the intel or maybe drag things out as a distraction, and flirting with waitresses was its own special art, but at bars he liked to keep things simple.

 

Step 1: The Smile

Everyone told Dean that he had a very nice smile, but he actually had several. There were two in particular he used at bars. The open, mischievous Grin of Mutual Appreciation was for women who seemed to be wanting someone to pick them up. It said, “See something you like? Because I sure do.” The second, which Dean dubbed Bedroom Eyes with Gentle Smirk, was quieter, more of a “By the way, you look amazing.” It was for the long shots because it seemed more like a polite gesture to someone who wasn’t paying any attention.

Dean walked up to the man, who seemed to be reading something, and said “Hey,” as softly as he could manage over the music. When the man looked up, he was treated to the second smile.

This step was more of a litmus test than anything. If the woman, or man in this case, smiled back the same way, Dean would sit down. If they looked annoyed, he would leave. If they looked confused, he’d make something up before he went. Bedroom Eyes with Gentle Smirk could morph quickly to Eyebrows of Vague Interest, and Dean could couple it with “Hmm? Did you say something,” in a way that left even the most cynical thinking they had imagined things.

The man just blushed, and fidgeted a little. Normally, that was a sure sign that a woman was inexperienced, and Dean avoided inexperience and the associated awkward sex and emotional entanglements like the plague. Still, something had Dean thinking of the accountant from Beloit with the thing for whips. She’d started out nervous, too.

He sat.

 

Step 2: The Lame Line

While the smile established that he and his companion were interested in one another, it didn’t ensure that they were looking for the same thing. She could want someone to take her shopping, or take her out on fun dates, or love her, or even meet her parents. He’d once woken up from a one-night stand roped into escorting a bridesmaid to her sister’s wedding. She’d been thirty-three and amazing in bed, he’d been seventeen and using a fake ID, and Dad had been surprisingly unamused when he found out why Dean had skipped two days of school.

Dean, obviously, was looking for sex. Somehow, though, “I’d like to spend the night getting to know you biblically, but let’s keep things casual because tomorrow night I’ll be two states away either digging up graves or sleeping in a motel room with my brother,” was kind of hard to work into a conversation.

Interestingly, though, if he just said, “I’d like to get to know you biblically,” it conveyed the rest of the message without Dean’s actually having to say it. Sam insisted it conveyed “I’m a shallow horndog with commitment issues,” but tomayto, tomahto.

The lines also provided his potential date with a graceful exit. If a one-night-stand wasn’t what she was looking for, she just had to laugh and look away. He’d find somewhere else to be by the time she looked back.

“So, call me crazy, but anyone reading in a bar’s gotta be looking to do something a bit more exciting, right?” It was the waggle of the eyebrows and the oh-so-casual lean-in that pushed mediocre pick-up lines into the realm of truly awful.

Bar-guy laughed, and looked away.

Then he looked back. “Does that sort of line actually work?”

Dean smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

 

Step 3: Talk

This step was best to get out of the way quickly. The only rule was to always give your real first name; it was sort of lonely listening to someone come with another man’s name on their lips. Then, just pick a fun job and lie about having it. If the woman caught on, he would pick an embarrassing job and pretend to have it, instead. In the unlikely event that she still didn’t believe him, he would cheerfully admit that he was lying, and promise her sexual favors if she could correctly guess his job. From there, the evening could go a lot of ways, none of them bad.

“Dean Fogerty, classical car mechanic. And yourself?”

 

Step 4: Listen

This was always Dean’s guilty pleasure, hearing how the other half lived. It always amazed him, the strangers they trusted and the things they felt safe doing, what upset them and what they were proud of. Though Dean had to hand it to “Andy Grayson, Gentleman of Leisure.” Airbrushing a barbarian queen onto the side of your van was pretty cool.

Andy had won the lottery a year back, and quit his job at a local diner so he could do all the things he’d never gotten around to, like reading philosophy books written by guys who died over a century ago, and building the largest bong in the county.

Dean sometimes wondered what he’d want to do if he woke up one morning and all the demons and monsters had disappeared. Looking at Andy, he silently crossed “have an existential crisis” off the list.

“And it’s like, if I can have everything, what’s the point of having anything, you know?”

“You can’t buy a perfect aim with a rifle, or a basic knowledge of catalytic converters.”

“Yeah, can’t make anyone give me skills. Can’t make anyone love me, or at least can’t make it worth anything. Can’t make myself worth loving.”

“Yeah, sure, money can’t buy you love. Personally I liked Ringo better than Paul.”

“Oh, shut up. You don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

“I sincerely hope it’s not love, because that’s just a little more than I signed up for.”

“With you? God no. I mean, you’re really pretty and fun.”

“That’s my line.”

“There’s this girl Sarah that I might want to date.”

“Might?”

“Yeah. She’s gorgeous and funny and driven, which could be good since I’m so laid back.” It always fascinated him what qualifications civilians looked for in their special someones. Someone they had fun with, someone they could count on, someone they got hard for. They made the position sound like a drinking buddy, a hunting partner, and a skin mag model by turns.

“So why is it ‘might’?”

“I dunno. She wouldn’t be with me if I hadn’t gotten my lottery money.”

“Golddigger?”

“No. She doesn’t know about the money. I …arranged for us to live together. And some other things.”

“Huh. Do you think she’d be with you if you hadn’t done it?”

“Probably not. She never used to be very nice.”

“Then you shouldn’t be with her. It’s a lie, man.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’d be the first to ask about lies, wouldn’t you, Mr. Fogerty?”

“Yes, but I’m just trying to have sex with you. Would you be any less likely to have sex with me if I told you my last name was Cook?”

“N-no.”

“Then it’s not really a lie, is it?”

“So, you’re saying you never lie unless you could get the same thing by telling the truth?”

“I’ll do it for someone’s own good. I lied to my little brother for the first eight years of his life, about Santa Claus. He was happier not knowing the truth.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, I guess not. Sometimes I lie for the greater good. One time, there was this old woman who ran her Buick over her mailbox backing out of her driveway. And she was so old, I had no problem with her crashing the car. If she wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, more power to her. Except she only chipped the paint. When she came in to have it fixed, I lied and said it would take two weeks to special order the paint. Spent the time tinkering with the engine so that it would only go five miles an hour. She spent the rest of her life trying to figure out how to fix it, but didn’t kill anybody crashing her car.”

“That’s bullcrap.”

“Fair enough. Another time I lied to a man about what it takes to kill a zombie because I knew that his psychotic dead girlfriend would overhear and follow us out to the cemetery where we could nail her back into her coffin.”

Andy laughed, and then paused and gave Dean a sharp look. “I guess there’s all sorts of lies.”

 

Step 5: The Graceful Exit

This step was without a doubt the hardest. Sometimes, a woman wanted nothing more than to take Dean home with her immediately, but refused to say so on general principle. This left Dean with the awkward choice of inviting himself over or giving helpful non-verbal hints. Too much leaning, glancing, and casual touching would send the message that Dean didn’t care about the conversation, which, as said conversation was typically about the woman’s life at this point, seemed a little rude. He’d been experimenting lately with directing the conversation back to his fake back-story and then saying abruptly “But enough about me; how about we get out of here?” Unfortunately, the current wording seemed to get the two of them back to his motel room instead of her residence, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Sam spit in the morning coffee after spending the night in sexile.

“So, feel like getting out of here?” Andy asked, and Dean sent a silent thanks that sometimes this step could be easy.

 

Step 6: Well, you know.

It seemed like only a blink before he was sitting on the couch in Andy’s apartment, four empty beer bottles on the table and an enormous bong in the corner. God, he was trashed.

How had this happened? It hadn’t taken Dean many tries to figure out that fall-down-drunk and sex didn’t mix well. The combination made for a clumsy night and an awkward morning, with licking and drooling and shimmying and the latent realization that they hadn’t been nearly as skilled or seductive as they thought they were at the time. The only women he actively avoided were the ones he’d introduced himself to over half a bottle of Jager. Most times, the avoidance seemed to be mutual.

“Hey Andy, believe me when I say that there’s nothing I’d rather do right now than get to know you better, but maybe we should take a rain check.”

“What? Why? You think I’m hot.”

“Yeah, and you think I’m hot, too. But we’re both going to be in for a rude awakening if we try to make something of it when we’re this far gone. Trust me: stumbling and slobbering is never sexy.”

“Yeah, but when you’re high everything seems sort of magical. Magical sex can’t be bad, can it?”

“All sex is magic, if you’re doing it right. And doing it right involves a certain level of skill and coordination.” Granted, he’d never tried gay sex before, but he was sure the same principles held.

“Wow, that sounds…adventurous. I mean, I’m all for trying out sex that requires coordination.”

“Me too, which is why now really isn’t…” He blinked. “Did you say something?”

“Are you ready to do this?”

Dean grinned. He was a Winchester. It took more than a bottle of beer and half a joint to throw him off his game. He shot Andy an appraising glance, but the smaller man seemed to be holding his own, his eyes not even red. “You know I am. But what, exactly, should this be?”

“Um, sex?”

Dean laughed. “That was the general idea, yes. Any particular flavor?”

The women (people now) that Dean picked up were sort of like home-style cooks. They mostly all made the same meals, cooked up a little differently no doubt, but they always had a special. Most times it was just a knack for one of the basics, “Best Sweet Tea in the State” or some such, which was always good. Then there were the weird ones, like jam-filled jalapeño peppers or deep-fried Oreos. These were always the best.

Incidentally, hookers were more like French chefs, used to catering to crazy fucks who wanted cooked snails and duck liver. Everyone knew not to try the special or even order off the menu with hookers. You had to be very particular that you wanted a plain old cheeseburger, thanks, and hold the special sauce because there was no telling what would be in it.

Sam always laughed when Dean tried to explain why snails were gross but alligator chili was worth trying, even though the answer shouldn’t be too hard to wrap his college-educated brain around: cooks put alligator chili on the menu because they loved it, or because they loved someone who loved it. It was personal. By the time an ice-cream-and-pickle sundae ended up on the menu, it had been experimented on and perfected until it was the best thing someone had ever tasted, and that someone was probably the cook.

No chef in the world actually liked snails. They just learned how to make them so they could get a gold star at their fancy French schools. They cooked them two ways: “exquisite,” meaning “executed skillfully, with some extra, disgusting twist that the critics thought was inventive”, or “delicious,” meaning “as palatable as I could make it, seeing as it’s snails and we’d both secretly rather be having a cheeseburger.”

Sam had asked what would happen if a diner ever had snails as its special. If a cook ever liked snails enough to perfect it and put it on the menu, Dean would of course try it, and it would be tasty, maybe deep-fried and served with ketchup.

Andy wasn’t offering any specials, though. “I think this is kinky enough for me, thanks. What about you? Any favorites?”

Dean had to laugh. Of course he had favorites. His favorite person was Sam, his favorite thing was the Impala, his favorite band was Zeplin, his favorite food was pie, and to his secret shame, his favorite sex was vanilla.

“You okay with sticking to the basics?”

“Yeah.”

Dean frowned. “We’re going to need supplies, aren’t we?”

“Um…isn’t ‘vanilla sex supplies’ sort of a contradiction of terms?” Dean raised his eyebrow. “Oh, you mean…yeah. Yeah, I have some in the bathroom. How many…Why don’t I just bring the box.” Flushed, Andy scrambled to his feet and headed down the hall.

“I think we’ll need a bottle, too,” Dean called after him, laughing. 

When it came to gay sex, turned out missionary position was a little too uncomfortable. The rest was the same, though. They undressed each other, and Dean might have had a flicker of déjà vu before Andy whispered it away. They kissed their way down each other’s bodies, and Dean, as the only one in the room who had ever been pegged (Thank you, Yvonne from Cheboygan), agreed to bottom. He was also the only one to have performed anal sex of any kind, so after he lay on his stomach on a pillow from the couch, he directed Andy to loosen him up with his fingers. Then they switched spots so that Andy was lying on his back on the pillow Dean had vacated. Dean slid down onto Andy and threaded the fingers of his right hand through those of Andy’s left. His own left hand traced up Andy’s arm and down his chest before reaching to comb through Andy’s hair and dragging him up for another kiss.

“God, so hot. Dean, you feel incredible.” As sex talk went, it was a little unoriginal, but somehow it really did it for him. That, or Andy had found his prostate.

Still, Dean could return the favor. He turned the man’s head so that their eyes met. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured. And if his lover burst into tears as he came, well, that happened sometimes.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Dean, you awake?”

“Am now. Timesit?”

“Huh?”

“What time’s it? Gotta pick up breakfast.”

“Not now, you don’t. It’s like, two in the morning.”

“Gotta put down salt? S’not a hunt; m’not wearing shoes.”

“Are you sure you’re awake? Cause that sounds like one crazy dream you’re having.”

“What? Andy? What’s wrong?”

“Are we snuggling?”

“WHAT? No, we most certainly are not! What kind of crap are you…” he looked down towards Andy, whose head would likely have slid from Dean’s chest down to his lap by now if not for his firm grip on the man’s shoulders. “This isn’t snuggling. Men don’t snuggle. We’re enjoying a moment of post-coital bliss and lethargy. Dude!”

“Okay, then. It’s just, this post-coital thing, it feels nice, you know? Almost like love.”

Love felt like watching your dad’s body burn, or holding up your brother through visions and psychic pain because it was all you could do, or pranking him just because you know revenge will make him laugh, and he hasn’t smiled enough since his girl died. Sleeping next to someone in the dark didn’t seem like much compared to that, but civilians were strange sometimes. “Um. Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Do you…does anybody love you?”

“My brother.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dean woke up gradually. First he let the muffled sound of banging pots and the steady, snuffling breaths to his right tell him that there were two people near him, neither of them Sam. Next he stretched, determining that he was unharmed, unbound, and unclothed, and located his bowie under the pillow. Finally, he searched for memories of the night before as he cracked his eyes open and spotted a scruffy guy drooling on the pillow beside him. Right. Andy Grayson, gentleman of leisure and recipient of Dean’s gay-virginity. The lucky dog. This didn’t explain why someone was in the kitchen making what smelled like coffee and pancakes. Grabbing his knife and phone as he pulled on his pants, Dean went to investigate.

“Good morning! The pancakes are ready.”

Dean vaguely recalled Andy saying something about a roommate, but wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t dreaming, waking up at the crack of dawn to a sexy woman in black lingerie and matching high-heels already cooking breakfast. It was a little like the plot to Casa Erotica 3, actually. “That can’t be comfortable sleepwear,” he quoted with a lazy grin.

“I know, right? And it makes me look like a complete skank, to boot.” With a shrug, the woman turned back to her pancakes, flipping one more onto a plate. “Don’t tell Andy I said so, though. He gets into it, I can tell.”

“That’s nice of you?” He wasn’t complaining, but it seemed like a lot of work to go to for someone who wasn’t even awake to appreciate it.

“Yeah, I guess,” she admitted grudgingly as she placed a tall stack of pancakes on the table beside the syrup and butter. “But really, I’m glad Andy’s here. And I know he’s my good friend, but he’s still a guest, so I should do my best to make him as happy and comfortable as possible.”

“Miss Manners says ‘show some skin’?”

“What?” She looked up from the coffee she was pouring, blinking in confusion.

“Sorry, it just sounded like you were quoting something.” _Not something, someone_ , his mind whispered, but he shook it off. “These are awesome pancakes. Aren’t you going to eat some?”

“Nah, my stomach doesn’t really wake up until around noon. I’ll just stick with coffee.” He eyed the pot longingly, and she snickered. “Help yourself, Dean. Andy normally gets a latte on his way out, so there’s more than enough.”

Dean smiled and reached for the scalding liquid with one hand and his knife with the other. “Have we met? I don’t remember telling you my name.”

She laughed again, but thankfully it was less of an evil, ‘Surprise, I’m a demon,’ cackle, and more of an awkward, ‘Oh, crap, he actually believes in demons,’ chuckle. “Last night at dinner, remember? Boy, you were out of it.”

She was obviously wrong, because he met Andy at the bar last evening at…he had no idea what time. Or what he’d done before. Now that he thought about it, he could imagine hamburgers and cherry pie just a little too vividly, and there was a pain like someone was hammering a rusted nail through his skull.

“This can’t be happening!” Andy wailed from the other room. Half a minute later, he appeared in the doorway, green kimono tied haphazardly and blood dripping from his nose. He pinned Dean with a pained grimace. “It’s seven o’freaking clock in the morning! How is your brain even _on_ , let alone _bashing mine with a rock_? What are you, a zen master? A cylon?”

“What are you talking about?” Dean only distantly registered the words. It hurt to much to think. “Andy? Dean? Oh, no, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Sarah. Go take a shower, you’ll be late for work.”

“Alright.”

“Wait in your room when you’re done. I need to talk to you when I’m finished here.”

“Okay.”

He was vaguely aware of Andy silently hunched over in the chair across from him, rubbing his head and licking blood from his upper lip, waiting until the bathroom door closed. “Let it all go, Dean, but stay perfectly still.” He sighed in relief as the pain disappeared, and heard Andrew Gallagher echo the sound.

Gallagher got up and went to the sink, and Dean couldn’t decide whether to spend the time being humiliated, terrified, or just grateful that he was here instead of his little brother. Turned out the midget got to ride Captain Kirk after all.

The younger man came back with a towel and gently gripped Dean’s chin, wiping the blood from under his nose while refusing to meet his eyes, and then went back to the sink, carefully rinsing the cloth, wringing the extra water from it, and hanging it over the faucet to dry. Finally, slowly, he returned and slouched down in the seat next to Dean. “So, you obviously hate me now.” Dean stayed silent. What was there to say?

“I’m sorry.” _Not sorry enough to stop_ , he thought.

“I’m just…really lonely, I guess.”

“Buy a dog,” Dean spat through clenched teeth. “Fuck it instead.”

Gallagher flinched, and then nodded, straightening his shoulders resolutely. “I know you probably want to yell at me, so go ahead. I’ll let you. I totally deserve it.”

Actually, screw it, Dean had a lot to say. “Right now, I want to take my knife and stick it through your eyeball, or even just do everyone a public service and cut out your tongue. Hell, I’d settle for calling the cops to come lock you up, if I thought it would do any good. But somehow, I doubt you’ll _let me_ do any of that.” He took a deep, calming breath. “It’s okay, though, because someday you’ll meet something bigger and badder than you, and it will rip you apart. Just wish I could be there to watch.”

“See, it’s sweet talk like that that got you laid,” the other man pointed out. He nervously cleared his throat. “Um, maybe that came out wrong. It’s just, you’re like a secret government agent.”

“Monster hunter.”

“Whatever.” Gallagher stood back up and began to pace. “You’re half a foot taller than me, weigh twice as much, and you’re older, cooler, and better looking. In fact, you kinda remind me of every kid in high school who ever beat me up,” he admitted.

“So, what, this is a revenge thing?”

“No!” he paused his pacing. “God, no. I just thought,” he visibly braced himself and met Dean’s eyes. “I thought it wouldn’t feel like I was taking advantage of you.” With a sigh, he turned back to his pacing. “I mean, you have a knife, and a gun, and I get the impression you could kill me with your bare hands.”

“Believe me, I wish I could.” Dean gritted out, and Gallagher waved him off.

“Yeah, yeah, appearances are deceiving, I hold the power, with great power comes great responsibility, blah, blah, blah! I get it, okay.”

“Then what the hell are you doing, violating people left and right?”

Gallagher held out a hand as though he could cover Dean’s mouth from across the room. “Don’t say ‘violated.’ It makes it sound like I raped you.” Dean scoffed. “I didn’t! I just made you feel good.”

“Who said I wanted you to?!” He’d never been ashamed of sex before, but the memory of the man stripping and blowing him made Dean feel weak and dirty. Before that, he’d wandered around in a dumb, happy daze leaving his brother to hunt alone. The worst had been in between, though. Dean hadn’t felt safe since he was four years old. He’d tried, and Dad and Sam had done so much over the years to help. He got close sometimes, in the Impala, when he wasn’t busy watching out for semis. Maybe someday, when the Yellow-Eyed Demon was dead and his brother was back to normal, when hunting was something they did instead of how they survived, he might turn around and realize he wasn’t looking over his shoulder anymore. That was how Safe was supposed to happen, not a few cheap magic words from a stranger. But Andrew Gallagher had no business knowing any more about Dean’s feelings than he’d already forced out, so the words stayed inside him.

“I didn’t go through with it,” the man was insisting.

Dean barked out a laugh. “’Lick it, it tastes like cherry crumble.’”

“But I stopped, didn’t I? What we ended up doing, hooking up like that, one night of mutual respect and great sex, you do that with beautiful women all the time.”

“Just because I like having sex doesn’t mean I like having sex with _you_.”

“What, is it because I’m a guy?” Gallagher huffed defensively, “Because I’m a scrawny, scruffy, geek of a pothead who needs to learn his place and stop bugging the cool kids?”

“No, it’s because you’re a sad, pathetic, pervert of a mind-rapist.”

The younger man flinched and flushed a bright, angry red. “For the last time, **I DIDN’T RAPE YOU!** ”

“Right,” Dean admitted, because Andy hadn’t raped him, what he’d done had been completely different.

Andy stood silent for a long moment, wide-eyed, hands over his mouth, face pale.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sarah was the kind of girl who made Dean wish he could drop everything and spend a long, sprawling week getting to know her better, but there was still a freaky psychic killer on the loose. Heck, he’d settle for lazy morning sex if she hadn’t had to leave for work. Nine-to-five jobs: they even sucked for the people who didn’t have them.

Still, a great night that left you wanting more wasn’t exactly something to get annoyed over, so he found himself humming along to heavy metal as he headed back to the hotel and his brother. “Hey, Sammy, I’m home!” he called out. “What’d’ya dig up while I was gone?”

“Way to make me sound like a dog, Dean,” his brother huffed petulantly, and a bit too sincerely to Dean’s well-trained ear.

He grinned anyway. “Aw, cheer up, Sammy, you’d make an awesome dog. Blow that Lassie bitch right out of the water.” Then he paused and frowned. “Dude, did Lassie swim?”

Pretending to mull over the aquatic skills of a fictional dog gave him a chance to watch his brother out of the corner of his eye, waiting for whatever emo eruption was brewing. It was a bit like gas, actually. Sam just had more than most people. Sure, he could ask his little brother to keep it in, but it was gonna get out eventually, and better now than later in the car when the enclosed space would make things even more uncomfortable and there wouldn’t be any way to escape.

“Hey Dean?” _There she blows_ , Dean mentally smirked. Sometimes Sam could be so predictable. “Listen, this isn’t the sort of conversation I wanted to have over the phone, but you can’t just take off like that. I messed up and let Dr. Jennings die, and then when I called you it went to voicemail, and it…really freaked me out. I know you’re dealing with a lot, but I am, too, and I just…I need to know you’re safe, man. Especially during a hunt.”

Dean had to blink a few times, because that was actually a good point. He couldn’t remember thinking about how worried Sam would be. He’d heard him call, but had put the phone on silent, giving Sarah his undivided attention when normally he’d at least text his brother back. This wasn’t just Sam acting like a delicate orchid, it was a matter of basic safety, and for the life of him, Dean couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t thought of it before. “Yeah, I…I got nothing. I lost track of Andy, went to interrogate Sarah, one thing led to another, and, well, it didn’t even occur to me until now what a dick move it was. It won’t happen again.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Sam cleared his throat. “I broke into County records last night, found some information you’re gonna want to see.”

Dean grinned. “What’s that, boy? Are there corpses stuck in the well?”

“You’re such a jerk.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“She won’t even look at me,” Andy sighed, gazing forlornly at Tracy, his ex-girlfriend / heroically-saved-damsel.

Dean expected Sam to jump in with his civilian-comfort mojo, but his brother was too busy watching Andy with thinly-veiled suspicion. Sam never really had warmed up to the guy. This left Dean to pick up the slack.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just the stress,” he offered. “I mean, she’s been through a lot.”

Andy shook his head. “She’s scared of me now.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” Sam offered, because he could be a dick sometimes.

The little guy just shook his head again. “She deserves to be.”

As Sam opened his mouth to offer another Satan-tempts-some-religious-guy level of douchery, Dean grabbed his arm. “Excuse me, I need to borrow my brother for a moment.”

He waited until they were a good hundred feet away. “Dude, what’s your problem?!” he hissed.

“He’s a killer now, Dean.”

“Okay, A. He killed the guy who was about to _make me blow my head off_ , so I say he gets a free pass. B. You’ve been gunning for him since before we actually met him, so I know that’s just an excuse. Try again.”

Sam crossed his arms and looked down. “We’re all killers,” he muttered.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, resolutely not thinking about the last words of another moronic Winchester. “How about instead of judging you on what you can do, or what the Demon wants you to do, we judge you all on what you actually _do_.”

“He keeps flinching, and won’t look me in the eye, like he’s guilty of something. ” Dean stares incredulously. “He uses his powers on cops, and, and on debt collectors.”

“Whereas we rely on good, wholesome, credit card scams and officer impersonation.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t have to believe us.”

“If we do it right, they will. The world’s safer when they do. He doesn’t do anything we don’t try to, he’s just better at it.”

“Better?” Sam scoffed. “He’s practically unstoppable. I’m the only one who can stop him. If I leave him here and he snaps….”

“That’s your rationale? If I don’t shoot him in the face, who will? Come on, you’re better than that. Remember Lenore? You let a vampire go. A vampire, man! Have a little faith.”

Sam looked a little mutinous as he followed Dean back across the gravel towards Andy, but he followed just the same. “Sorry about that, my brother gets grouchy when he’s up past his bedtime. We should probably head out.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll just…keep busy. Maybe take up gardening. Or juggling. Something to work at, you know?”

“And you’ll be good?”

Andy flushed. “Yeah, sure, of course,” he stuttered.  "No problem, I..."

But the brothers were already back in their car, nudging it to onto road.  “...I’ll try.” 


End file.
